“I take care of me.” He turned his head to hold her gaze. “The same way you take care of you. It’s who we are, it’s what we do.”
She nodded. Then shook her head. “Does it ever get to you? Always being an island?”
Reaching out, he brushed the tips of his fingers along her jaw. “I guess I don’t let myself think about it too much.”
“That’s usually my tactic too,” she admitted. “But sometimes it gets old.”
He watched her inhale the food he’d made for her, a small smile curving his mouth. “We could do something about that.”
She nearly choked on a bite of toast. “Meaning?”
He just smiled.
Something low in her belly quivered. A good kind of quiver. One she hadn’t allowed herself much of in a long time. “Um . . .”
“You telling me you haven’t thought about it?”
She met his gaze. “To be clear, by it, you’re suggesting we . . . sleep together.”
“I’m suggesting I’m here to meet any need you have, any time.”
If she thought about that for even another second, she was going to crawl into his lap and wrap herself around him. Instead, she stood up, took both their empty plates and went to the sink with them. She rinsed them and helped herself to his dishwasher, loading the dishes inside. When she turned, he was right there, close enough to touch, and she sucked in a breath. “That was the only need I’m capable of helping you with at the moment,” she said, even as her body vehemently disagreed with her.
Mateo smiled, like no worries. Or maybe because he knew she was lying. “And you?” he asked. “Is there a need I can help you with?”
She had to bite her tongue rather than answer yes, please!
His amusement faded. “Want to talk about last night?”
“No.” Definitely not.
He just looked at her for a long beat. “When you’re ready, then.”
She fussed with drying off his countertop. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Any time.” He gently pulled her back around to face him. “But just so you know, I’m sure we could do much better than breakfast for you.”
Her body, knowing it, shifted against his. “I . . . need to work up to that.”
With a smile, he cupped her face and brushed a kiss across her forehead. “On your time, Charlotte. Always.”
A FEW MINUTES later, Charlotte walked back to her house, carrying one of Mateo’s mugs filled with his own special blend of coffee that might as well have been crack, it was that good.
The sun had risen. Gorgeous but not anywhere close to warm. Snow clung stubbornly to the pine trees and the icy air burned her lungs. She didn’t care because it was still early, and Dr. Charlotte Marie Dixon was leaving a man’s house and she was smiling.
She felt amazing. Absolutely nothing had happened beyond breakfast, but it’d been the most intimate she’d been with a man in years.
When she stepped into her kitchen, she found Jane sitting at the table staring at a small flat box on the coffee table as if it was a coiled rattlesnake. She looked up at Charlotte with obvious relief. “Hey. Where were you? You were off shift an hour ago and your car’s here, but you vanished.”
Charlotte laughed. “Sucks, doesn’t it, the not knowing if someone’s okay?”
Jane grimaced in acknowledgment that she was guilty of not checking in as often as she should. “You’re the responsible one. You’re teaching me, remember? Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you just come from Mateo’s house? From Mateo’s bed?” She eyed the mug in Charlotte’s hands, leapt to her feet, and gasped. “Oh my God, you did!” She hopped up to sit crisscross on the counter. “Tell all. Don’t leave a single thing out.”
“He cleared the snow for us, so I went over there to, um, thank him, and he made me breakfast.”
Jane stared at her. “Are you blushing?”
Charlotte clasped her hands to her cheeks. “No!”
“You are so!” She pointed at her. “He did more than make you breakfast.”
“If I’m blushing, it’s because he made me breakfast and didn’t expect anything more.” And she’d enjoyed herself so much more than she had in a very long time.
“Well, of course he didn’t expect anything from you. He’s Mateo,” Jane said, reminding Charlotte that Jane trusted Mateo, when Jane didn’t trust anyone.
Charlotte gave her a soft smile. “I’m starting to realize that.”
“Tell me the truth. You didn’t go over there to thank him for removing the snow.”
“No.” Charlotte laughed at herself. “I went over there to yell at him. I’d had a really bad night at work. I . . . lost someone. A young woman. Domestic violence.”
Jane let out a soft gasp and slid off the counter. “Oh no. Honey, I’m so sorry.” She pulled Charlotte in for one of those rare but magical hugs. “Are you okay?”
Charlotte held on tight. “Better now.”
“So . . .” Jane’s voice had a small smile in it. “You had a shit night, came home upset, found all your snow gone, and stormed over to yell at our sexy neighbor, and he defused you with his amazing food.”
Charlotte dropped her head to Jane’s shoulder. “Yes.”
Jane pulled back, keeping her hands on Charlotte’s arms, looking into her face. Jane didn’t touch people casually, so whenever she did touch Charlotte, it meant something. This morning, it warmed a part of her heart she hadn’t realized needed warming.
“I like it,” Jane said. “I like him for you.” She then turned back to the table to stare at the box some more.
“What’s that?” Charlotte asked.
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You left it for me.”
Charlotte gave a slow shake of her head. “Not me. Are you kidding? You break out into hives when I give you a present. You went through an entire packet of Benadryl last Christmas.”
Jane frowned. “You’re not playing me? This really isn’t from you?” She opened the box, separated the gift paper inside, and pulled out a sugar plum fairy ornament, dangling it from her finger. “You’re the only one who knows I once dressed up like a sugar plum fairy to go see The Nutcracker with my grandma.”
“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte breathed, admiring the dainty glass ornament. “But no. I’m not playing you. Where was it?”
“At my cubby in the Sierra North clinic.” She eyed Charlotte suspiciously, clearly still believing it had been her. “Who else knows my work schedule? No one.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “Let me stop you right there. When have you ever known me not to write a missive when sending a present?”
“True.” Jane’s shoulders slumped. “But if it wasn’t you, then who the hell left it?”
“I don’t know.” Charlotte moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think the real question is, if it had been me who gave it to you, why would it upset you so much?”
Jane sank to a chair. “I don’t know. Maybe because it feels like the past colliding with the here and now. The past hurts, and I don’t like thinking about it.”